Love's Inner Circle
by Yanx's Pen
Summary: Blaise attempts to "poison" Draco with Amortentia - a powerful love potion laced with Hermione's flair...But something goes wrong with the potion.Draco's life is barely hanging by a few threads of love, power and death. What happens? Rated M for lang ONLY
1. Dark Age

_**A/**_**N: This story is not DH compliant. But it does happen in 7th year... I hope you enjoy it – it's a new one...**

-DARK AGE-

"We called the four of you down here," began Mr Weasley hesitantly, "because we think you should still go back to school."

"WHAT!"

"ARE YOU FREAKING MENTAL!"

"No."

"I already see problems in this one..."

"Ginny, keep your voice down!" yelled Mrs Weasley. "And Ron, that is _no_ way to talk to your father. Apologise at once." Her voice softened a bit as she looked at Harry. "I know, Harry, it was a bit surprising when we first heard the idea, but we thought it through, and we do not think it is wise missing school for who knows how long."

"And Hermione," Mr Weasley said, "we will have countless members of the Order stationed at points in and around the school."

"But—" Ron began heatedly.

"Enough, Ron!" Mrs Weasley shouted. "Now go to your rooms and pack." She levelled a look at all of them. "All of you!" she added.

Harry licked his lips, hating to add to Mrs Weasley's anger. "Um, Mrs Weasley?"

"Yes, Harry, dear?"

Harry looked at his friends quickly (avoiding Ginny completely), and then said quietly, "I cannot go to school this year."

"And by 'we', he means _us_," Hermione interjected, glaring at Harry.

Before Harry could even argue, Mrs Weasley raised her eyebrows. "Oh? And why not?"

Harry bit his lip. "We have a...task to do for Professor Dumbledore."

Both Ron's parents registered expression of surprise. Mr Weasley hid his more easily. Mrs Weasley placed her hands on her hips. "Well, seeing that _we're_ the adults in this situation, we have decided to send you lot back to Hogwarts."

"But Mum! We're all already of age now! I'm sure we can—"

"_No_ is _no_, Ronald. The decision is final! I think it is _quite_ enough for me to worry about you all at Hogwarts, let alone scattered across the country _as well!_"

"Well, if you're so worried, don't send us," Ron muttered, looking at the floor.

"ROOMS! NOW!" Mrs Weasley shouted, her face beetroot red.

* * *

Hermione sat on the bed, staring intently at the designs that sighed out fluffy wisps of cloud into the sky. _If there are no boundaries in the sky, _she thought, _why should there be boundaries down here?_ She fiddled with the fabric of the duvet, wondering how her life would change in a matter of hours. For the first time in her life, she had willingly, _deliberately_ disobeyed the orders of an adult. The orders of Molly Weasley, no less. The three of them had packed their trunks. But they hadn't included school textbooks in their trunks. They hadn't included parchment, quills...anything school-related in their trunks. Their trunks were filled to the brim with a bunch of voluminous books on Dark Magic, Horcruxes, medicine, and the like.

Merlin help Molly Weasley when she found the stacks of school stationery (bought by Harry, Ron and Hermione in Diagon Alley) at the bottom of Ron's cupboards. But by that time, the three of them would have Apparated from Platform nine and three quarters, and no one would be the wiser.

Hopefully.

She heard a knock on the door. She turned and seeing who was there, smiled. Her smile seemed a bit forced, and she couldn't feel the skin around her eyes stretch as it usually did when she smiled. The tall, muscular boy entered her room cautiously. "Hermione," he said simply, plopping down next to her on the bed.

Even after all these years, her body still hadn't gotten used to Ron Weasley. She would still feel her heart beat just a _little_ bit faster. She would still feel her body tingle. Every fibre of her being continued to yearn for his touch, no matter how casual it was. But, being the idiot Ron Weasley was, he couldn't see any of it. So, every time her body would react like this, she would count to three, and by that time, she would have calmed down.

They lived in a realistic world; not a fantasy world.

"How are you holding up?" he asked, staring at his feet.

"Alright, considering," she replied softly.

They stayed like that for five minutes in comfortable silence. They could hear Mrs Weasley telling Ginny to hurry up or they'd all be late. They could hear Mr Weasley letting loose a string of profanities when the car refused to start. It all seemed so _normal_. As if nothing was out of place.

Hermione turned to look at Ron. "Do you think that things would ever be normal?" she asked, hoping for the right answer.

He turned to face her, his bright blue eyes missing their sparkle. "Define normal," he stated.

Hermione considered. "Not this," she said after a while.

"Then no," Ron said, giving her the wrong answer.

* * *

They had made it through the barrier. Hermione found it difficult to focus on the task at hand with so many Aurors surrounding them. They huddled together, trying to make their physical closeness look normal. Now was not a time to be separated. They called out to friends whom they hadn't seen in three months. They went through the clichéd formalities. "How was your holiday?" "How are you?" "Wow, I haven't seen you in ages!"

Yet, on many of their friends' faces, Harry, Ron and Hermione recognised something that they faced in the mirror every day. Those lines that seemed to be a permanent crease across their foreheads. A slight frown that tugged at the corners of their mouths. A spot of emptiness in their eyes.

The symptoms of the Dark Age were hard not to miss.

Hermione turned to face her two best friends. They looked at her with grim expressions. "You know what to do," she whispered quickly, darting a nervous glance around them. "Please," she asked, looking them in their eyes. "Be _careful."_ She wrapped her arms tightly around them, afraid that something could go wrong, and they could be held captive by the enemy. She withdrew a moment later, feeling tears sting her eyes. "Go," she urged, before she ran off to the ladies' bathroom.

Once in, she entered a cubicle, and was about Apparate to Grimmauld Place, when she heard a voice. "Don't do it, Hermione," the woman said.

Hermione's eyes widened. She had been followed!

"Tonks?" she whispered, clutching her robes tightly. She squeezed her eyes shut. _Say it isn't so. Say it isn't so. Say it isn't so..._

"Yip! The one and only!" came her cheery voice. A second later, Hermione saw the latch pull away, and her cubicle door slowly fell open. Before her, a woman in her mid-twenties, with sleek black hair that reached her waist, stood grinning at her. "Molly told me to keep an eye on you lot. Shacklebolt has Harry and Ron, don't worry," she added.

Hermione gritted her teeth. She should have predicted this.

"Oh, and here," Tonks said, reaching behind her to get a trunk. "Here's a trunk with all your school books, parchment, et cetera." Hermione slowly counted to ten. She closed her eyes, clutching her wand behind her back at the same time. She had never tried it, but if she could get the flick of her wand right _behind_ her back, maybe she could Apparate out of there.

"Oh no you don't," Tonks said, grabbing her arm. "Come on. I am going to be your train buddy."

Hermione balled her hands into fists. There was no way out. And she was bloody stupid not to have a Plan B.

* * *

'I think—' began a balding man hesitantly, his hands fisting his robes nervously.

'Nobody _cares_ what you think, Zabini,' hissed Lord Voldemort, his eyes glinting dangerously in the feeble firelight. He leaned forward, a slender pale finger tracing patterns around Nagini's head. Nagini hissed with pleasure. 'If you dare to even _speak_ again,' Lord Voldemort said softly, eyeing the cowering man before him, 'consider yourself a mere ghost of the past. Understand?' He paused, watching with mild amusement as the pathetic man bobbed his head up and down.

'Y-y-yes, my lord,' he stuttered, his body visibly shaking. His head was bowed so low, that it almost touched the cool granite table that stretched from one side of the room to the other. The man next to him quietly slid his chair further away from Zabini, his brow crinkling.

Voldemort's lips lifted up sardonically. 'Sadly,' he said, sounding anything but sad, 'I do not believe you do understand me, Zabini. This is the third time. I do not forget.'

Zabini dragged his head up to meet his master's eyes. He tried to meet those eyes, but he could not. Those eyes...seemed to have the image of death reflected in them. His gaze settled on his master's thin lips instead. His breathing stilled as he saw them open slightly – a thin slit – and he silently sent a prayer up to the one he never believed in until now. Before he had even finished thinking _Dear God, _the words everybody in that room knew as well as their own name fell like a caress from their master's lips-

'_Avada kedavra.'_

The man named Ricardo Zabini slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a dull _thud_, his glassy eyes unmoving.

No one moved. No one said anything. They knew that if they did, they would go the same way. Not even the tall boy at the back said anything. He clenched his jaw tightly, drawing on all of his strength to keep his tears at bay. The fact that his father had just died – no, had been _murdered –_ drilled into his head like a merciless knife. He closed his eyes briefly, thinking of an image of pure white. No colour. No signs of blacks, greys. Just white.

'It was necessary, young Blaise,' Voldemort said thinly, tilting his head to look at Blaise Zabini.

_No, it was not_, Blaise thought. At this distance, he could not see Voldemort too clearly. He was too far away. He could not see, but he could well imagine. At this moment, the corners of Voldemort's lips had probably lifted up. At this moment, Voldemort would be holding his wand as if it was light as a feather, not as if it carried the weight of hundreds of deaths. At this moment, his breathing would be completely normal, not erratic as if he had cold-heartedly murdered someone for fun.

At this moment, he would be reading Blaise's mind.

Blaise nodded stiffly, knowing already that Voldemort knew he was lying. Blaise childishly crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping that he wouldn't be at the receiving end of the Killing Curse.

Voldemort abruptly ignored him, instead looking at the man sitting dangerously close to Nagini. Blaise breathed out slowly, relieved.

'As I was saying, Lucius,' Voldemort said, carrying on as if nothing unusual had happened, 'we need to find the Order's new location immediately.'

'My lord, I have been trying—' began Lucius Malfoy. For a man that was under the intense scrutiny of the Darkest wizard of all time, his voice betrayed no fear, just a very prominent edge of sheer respect.

'_Trying_ is not good enough,' Voldemort said crisply, eyeing his wand thoughtfully.

'My Lord,' Lucius began, licking his lips, 'My son, Draco—' here, he gestured to the far end of the table at Draco Malfoy, who sat ramrod straight. He stared blankly back at his father, his hands crossed over one another. Neither Draco nor his father heard Blaise's quite scoff. '—has been following Potter, as per your orders, my Lord, but—'

'Are you telling me that your son is incapable of simply following a mere _boy_ around, Lucius?'

'I...' began Lucius, pressing his lips together, not wasting time to glare at his son. 'We are still working on that, my Lord.'

The air was thick with suspense, each person waiting to see the Dark Lord's reaction.

'I see,' Voldemort said after a lengthy pause. His eyes swivelled to land on Draco. 'Do you need any _help_, boy?' he asked mockingly.

'I don't mind helping him, my Lord!' cried Bellatrix Lestrange.

'The boy has a mouth of his own, Bellatrix,' Voldemort said. 'Let's see what he has to say.'

All members in the room focused their gaze on the young Malfoy. Only those nearest to him would be able to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.'I don't need anyone's help, my Lord. I can do this by myself,' he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. His grey eyes rested on Voldemort's shoulder.

'Is that so?' Voldemort asked. Without waiting for a reply, he carried on, 'Because if you are having any _difficulties_, Draco, you can ask your friend, Blaise Zabini, over there to helpyou.'

Even though he knew that their master was just mocking Malfoy, Blaise stiffened. As of late, he loathed the very ground Draco Malfoy walked on. To even place their names in the same sentence irked him. And Voldemort knew this.

'He is no friend of mine,' Draco replied tonelessly. Despite the simplicity of these words, the order in which they were said tore a fine layer off Blaise's skin. Yes, Blaise hated him. But there was a time, three or four months ago, when the two had been close. Yet circumstances changed people, and that is at where they stand today: changed people.

If Voldemort had eyebrows, Blaise could have betted that he would have lifted one up now. 'Ah. Refusing to associate with those of the Outer Circle, are you?'

That was the thing about Voldemort. He did not care to insult others. He did not see it wrong to further create a mini-hierarchy in his society of followers. Blaise flexed his fingers. So _what_ if Draco and his bloody family belonged to the Inner Circle. So _what_ if only fif-bloody-teen people belonged to this Circle? The rest (a good one-hundred-and-seventy-five - Blaise stilled, thinking of his father...one-hundred-and-seventy-_four_ followers) belonged to the Outer Circle. The Inferior Circle.

'We all believe in the same cause, my Lord,' was Draco's non-yes/non-no, reply.

The boy angered Blaise. It wasn't the fact that the Draco Malfoy that Blaise knew _died_ and was replaced by some cold git. It wasn't the fact that after Dumbledore's death Draco shunned everyone whom he used to be close to. It wasn't the fact that Draco really hated it here, but was acting as if he, what was it? Oh, right. _Believed in the same cause_. Bloody hypocrite.

No, it wasn't any of these. Well, maybe it was, but to top it off, Blaise's father had actually _believed _in this had been a strong follower of Voldemort. He had even modified a lot of the Mudblood-principles. Ricardo Zabini had genuinely made an effort to _help_ Lord Voldemort. Which was why he tried to answer Voldemort's questions. Unfortunately, Ricardo had been partly blind, so he could not see the direction of Voldemort's gaze when he posed questions.

It was human to make a mistake.

Even if it was made three times consecutively.

The point is that the Malfoys were given preferential treatment over the Zabinis. Both families had been around for centuries. Both were as pureblooded as the devil himself was.

Yet.

What made them different really? The two Circles? What made them different? Voldemort could not –

'Out, Blaise,' Voldemort said, his voice hardly qualifying as a murmur.

Blaise snapped to attention, and inwardly cringed. Blaise was a thinker, he couldn't help it. He did not know how to control his thoughts anywhere...and that needed to be done especially when he kept company like this.

Blaise quickly made his way out of the room, ignoring the looks used-to-be-friends gave him. Merlin, everyone had changed, it seems. He only looked up when he saw _her. _Yet the look she gave him held the same warmth Draco's did: none. The coldness in her eyes squeezed his heart so tightly, he felt nauseous. Best friends, first loves...no relationship or bond created an exception.

The door slid closed softly behind him, and the cold hair slapped his face. He Apparated home as quickly as he could. He raced up the stairs, not caring as his tears drew tracks down his cheeks. He wanted to go back and carry his father's lifeless form out. He wanted to yell at the lot of them, telling them how ridiculous they were being. He wanted to punch Voldemort in the face. He wanted a lot of things.

But in this game he called life, there could be only one winner. The rest didn't reach the finish line. And it was quite obvious that Voldemort was going to win. The Order could never be strong enough to fight the Dark Side. Never.

So Blaise did what he had been taught. He pushed his pain down. He pushed his sadness down. He pushed his heartache down. He pushed his regret down. He called upon the only emotion that seemed common to every person in the room he had just vacated.

Revenge.

* * *

Draco knew how to mask emotion. He knew how to mask emotion _well_. So when the Dark Lord told Blaise Zabini to get out, Draco hid his shock. In this world, that translated into the Dark Lord giving Blaise a second chance – and Merlin knows that that in itself was a miracle. The Dark Lord gave _no one _a second chance. He hadn't given Lucius a second chance last year when he threatened his son's life. He hadn't given Ricardo a second chance when he killed him for interrupting.

So why had he given Blaise a second chance?

Draco dismissed the thought as the Dark Lord once again turned his attention toward Draco. Draco was scared of him. He knew it. The Dark Lord knew it. But Draco _knew how to mask emotion. _Draco had mastered Occlumecy. Aunt Bellatrix had tutored him thoroughly last year. It is because of this excellent skill that the Dark Lord did not know – _could_ not know – that Draco posed no concern for the Dark Arts. He hated it, in fact. It made him sick. Sick to the core.

_Do I even _have_ a core? _he wondered. Surely, to have a core, the person himself must have a personality, too. A person was made up of two, equal parts. The first was the most obvious: the outer part; what a spectator might see. Yet the second, although obvious, was more complicated than the first: it was the _being_. The thing that couldn't be seen. The soul, the personality, whatever you wanted to call it.

And the reason why it was so complicated, was because people could not see it, could not hold it. Therefore, how do you believe in something you cannot see or touch? It must be your trust in that person that whatever he does – his actions or words – are a reflection of his true character. And you, the spectator, will just have to live with that.

But Draco didn't have a soul. He didn't have a personality. That all had been washed away forcefully by a very strong tide – a tide that wasn't controlled by the moon, but by the Dark Lord himself.

And Draco resented him for this very reason. Sure, the person he used to be wasn't a much loved figure in society, but he was still _there_, right? But the person he was now...he was an even more hated figure in society, but now he wasn't _there_ at all. He was teetering on the borderline of _There_. And he felt that given the slightest push, he would land in _Nowhere._

His mind was on alert when the Dark Lord addressed him. His body was on alert when the Dark Lord issued more instructions to follow goddamned Potter. His ears and tongue were on alert to verbally respond appropriately. His heart was on alert that any moment now he would wake up from this throbbing nightmare, and the pain that beat in his heart would disappear.

He needed to be on alert. Because he knew that if he wasn't, he would be as good as a ghost.

-to be continued-

_**A/**_**N: Tell me, should I continue? Or should I just...y'know...chuck it?**


	2. Control

Previously:

_But in this game he called life, there could be only one winner. The rest didn't reach the finish line. And it was quite obvious that Voldemort was going to win. The Order could never be strong enough to fight the Dark Side. Never._

_So Blaise did what he had been taught. He pushed his pain down. He pushed his sadness down. He pushed his heartache down. He pushed his regret down. He called upon the only emotion that seemed common to every person in the room he had just vacated._

_Revenge._

-CONTROL-

2 months later

Blaise did not care about the Mudblood. It – and by _it_, he meant _she_ – wasn't of any concern to him. Whether she survived the humiliation was just a by-the-by thing. Whether she escaped her imminent death was also a by-the-by thing. Of course, what Blaise wasn't too happy about was the probability of Draco's murder. Because, really, he and Draco had been friends for practically six years. But, in the greater scheme of things, it did not affect anybody. What was the world without one less person? People die every day...every second, right? So two _more_ people wouldn't make _that_ much of a difference.

And besides. He wasn't the one murdering anybody. No. Voldemort would see to that part, surely.

As a Slytherin, it was extremely easy to be secretive. No one minded your business, and in return, you didn't give a shit about their business. It was an unspoken law. But sometimes, some people – some _stupid_ people – broke this law.

"Blaise, I feel as if I haven't seen you in ages," whined Astoria Greengrass, pouting prettily (or so she thought). She stood up the moment Blaise stepped into the dimly lit common room.

He tightened his hold on his bag, resisting the urge to fling it at Astoria. "I've been busy," he said shortly, being careful not to look at her.

"Doing what?" Astoria asked, twirling her hair, making her way towards him.

He flicked his gaze towards her, narrowing his eyes. He thought of images of her lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Alarm coloured the girl's eyes before she backed away slightly. Blaise couldn't help but smirking. _She was scared of him_.

"Blaise, are you—?" she began in a high voice.

"There's something you need to learn, Greengrass," he said softly, making sure to wipe his face smooth of any expressions. "Do not make the mistake of caring."

She raised her eyebrows. "They talk about you, you know," she said, and Blaise didn't know if she had taken offence to his words or not.

He turned away, deciding to ignore her. "They say that you've changed – that you've become a pathetic pile of—"

Blaise didn't give her time to finish. Before the girl knew it, he had her backed up against the wall, his hands roughly grinding into her shoulders. She bit her lips, but he could see her eyes tightening.

"Lesson number two," he whispered, digging harder into her shoulders. She winced. "Never assume."

He let her go after that; turning away before he could see the hurt look she shot him. Turning away, before he could feel the guilt.

He walked stiffly up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. With every step he took, he wondered where all this anger had come from. With every breath he breathed, he wondered about the person he had become. And with every tear that he did not shed, he wondered if he'd ever go back to being a normal human being.

He slipped on his slippers, throwing a silk gown over him. He tiptoed quietly out of the dorm, clutching his wand. With one last look at the boys sleeping peacefully, he hurried out of the room. No one was up at ten past three in the morning. It was a Saturday, after all.

He would never admit it to anybody – not that he willingly talked to anybody, of course – but he did shop at that Weasley shop. A lot of their goods came in handy. Like now, for instance. He put the invisible hat on that obscured his face from view. He put on the invisible cloak that obscured his body from view. Of course, this invisibility charm lasted for only an hour, by which time he would be back, safely tucked in his bed.

To Voldemort, Muggles were at the bottom of the food chain. Squibs were the next thing up. Right above them were the Mudbloods. And then, of course, house elves, thestrals, giants, et cetera, et cetera. Blaise's plan was, therefore, highly ingenious. If Draco Malfoy fell madly in love with one Hermione Granger, Voldemort would have Draco's head on a plate. And Granger's.

And it was doubly perfect because how could Draco choose to love a Mudblood? Harry Potter's best friends, no less!

But the problem, of course, was that Draco would never fall in love with Granger. Even he had a set of 'requirements'. Every man did.

Therefore, Blaise had decided, two months ago, to make Amortentia. It had been difficult. He had to find three strands of Granger's filthy hair...which had been done with a very simple, very _specified_ Summoning Charm. He had never been particularly good at Potions, but he seemed to have gotten it right this time.

He stepped into the vacated bathroom – a room that no one, to his knowledge, knew about – and went quickly into the furthest cubicle. His potion was ready. It looked like the clear, slightly pinkish liquid the book said it should like. It smelt like – no. Blaise stopped himself, and held his breath. He didn't want to smell _that_ smell again, even though he had the scent practically memorised. Besides, there would never be a day in hell that Pansy Parkinson would even look at him again.

But he was fine with that.

Really, he was.

He rubbed his hands together, closing his eyes briefly. _Am I doing the right thing?_ he wondered. He couldn't get rid of the guilt, but he also couldn't get rid of the image of his father's lifeless figure. Nodding to himself, he opened his eyes. He waved his wand, and a thin, clear glass tube appeared. He waved his wand again, and a small measuring spoon appeared. He filled the tube to the required volume. He was only giving it to one person, really.

The innocent-looking potion glistened in the tube, and Blaise briefly marvelled at its pearl-like sheen. He smiled a smile of satisfaction, and pocketed the tube. The rest of the potion went down the toilet, of course. He wouldn't want to leave any traces.

Ten minutes later, five minutes before the potion would wear off, he tipped the potion into Malfoy's flask of water. Because it was a flask – a silver flask – Malfoy wouldn't be able to see through it. By morning, he would be in love with Hermione Granger, and Blaise would be on the way to inching his way up the ladder of success.

That same guilt hovered in front of Blaise, but he refused to accept it. Instead, he stood at the door to his former best friend's dormitory. He waited. He waited to feel nothing. He waited to feel the weight lift off his shoulders.

But all he felt was sadness as he looked at Draco's peaceful face.

* * *

Draco had been staring at his ceiling for the past hour, and in that past hour, nothing had changed. It was still there, in all of its white, boring glory. He had tried countless methods of prolonging his waking up. He had counted the spots of dust on this ceiling; he had imagined blobs of colour on it. He had even imagined the whole ceiling caving in, crumbling him to pieces of nothingness.

But, the stupid bloody thing was still there.

His mission of tracking Potter started today. Surely the idiot would be up to something at Hogwarts? And if not, then what the hell was he doing here? His other purpose in life was to thwart Harry Potter's plans. Any and all of them.

Draco sighed, closing his eyes. Why couldn't he learn about magic like every other normal person? Why couldn't he live the life of a normal teenage boy? Why couldn't he picture his future as something happy? A wife, a child maybe. But it was pointless wishing. Even if the Dark side won the war, Draco would be harmed in some way or another.

_What would it be like to quit? To say no?_ Draco thought, in a brief flash of idiocy. It wasn't the first time he had thought this. It wasn't even the second. Try double digits. But to answer his question: death. Death is what it would be like.

_Stop asking stupid bloody questions_, he silently berated himself. He pushed the sheets back, getting out of bed at the same time. He forced his body, heavy with fatigue, to move forward to the window. He pulled the curtains open, and squinted. Sunlight split the sky into a variety of colours. There was no blue in the sky, no white or grey. The sky was a blend of yellow, orange...even pink. It was different.

Draco shook his head at the dull irony of the picture. How could the sky look like that – a picture of beauty, peace and innocence – when down here on Earth, there were many wars? It was as if it was mocking them – mortals and wizards alike.

He turned away from the view, and reverted to the real world. He picked up his flask, unscrewing the top lid. He took several gulps, before placing the flask back on the table. For the wildest moment, he experienced an inexplicable feeling of happiness. He blinked, trying to understand the feeling. It felt ... alien.

He shook his head, and picked up his wand, heading towards the bathroom.

Just as he got into the shower, he stumbled. He stumbled, nearly slipping on the slippery floor.

He stumbled because at that moment, the name and face of Hermione Granger flashed across his mind.

And the very same happiness he felt before coursed through his body again.

XXX

"They've got every single exit monitored," Hermione said, pointing her wand at the Marauders' Map that lay open on Ron's bed. She looked pointedly at Harry.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Lupin _knew_ I had the map, Hermione! Of course the rest of the Order would know about it as well!"

"I know," Hermione said, tucking away a strand of hair that kept falling onto her face.

"Don't worry about it, Hermione," Ron said. "It's not Harry's fault...And besides, I'm sure you can work something around it."

"_Me?_" Hermione asked, glaring at him. "Why does the pressure always fall upon _me_ to do all the thinking?"

Ron held his hands up in mock-surrender. "It doesn't _always_ fall upon you, Hermione," he assured.

Hermione was about to retort when Harry cut in, "So let's come up with Plan B."

Ron and Hermione looked at him. "I'm not saying that I have a plan," he said, answering their looks.

Hermione dropped her wand, raising her hands to massage her temples. "We have limited _space_, limited _time_, limited _resources_...How do you expect to overthrow Voldemort with what we have, Harry?"

"Thinking and dedication," he answered.

Ron snorted. "Right," he said. "And You-Know-Who got where he is now with thinking and dedication? More like greed."

"Harry's right, Ron," Hermione said. "And that _is_ how Voldemort to where he is now. He thought things through very thoroughly –"

"—in a conniving way," Ron interrupted.

"Agreed," Hermione nodded. "So let's meet in the Room of Requirement as often as possible to discuss this."

Ron looked confused. "Er, or we could meet here?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Too risky," Harry said. "I don't want to involve any other Gryffindors in this...This is dangerous enough involving the two of you."

"We _told_ you that we are all in this together, Harry," Hermione said gently, while comprehension dawned upon Ron.

Harry sighed. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by the sound of laughter coming from the Common Room.

Ron held up a hand. "Look, mate, let's not do this here, yeah?" He looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was coming up the stairs. "Let's meet tonight at eight? We'll head to the Room of Requirement with Harry's cloak."

Harry nodded in agreement.

Hermione frowned. "I have corridor patrols with –"

"—Malfoy," Ron said, grimacing.

Hermione sighed. "I still don't see how he got chosen as Head Boy!"

"Maybe Dumbledore could have done it deliberately, Hermione," Harry said thoughtfully.

"I still don't think he's a Death Eater, Harry," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Just because Malfoy Senior is recruited, doesn't mean his kid is," Ron said.

Harry shook his head. "I'm _telling_ you, Malfoy is—"

Hermione waved off the rest of his sentence with her hand. "So you think Dumbledore made Malfoy Head Boy just so that I could keep an eye on him?" she asked disbelievingly.

Harry nodded. "Absolutely."

"He's too young, Harry!" Hermione said. "Voldemort wouldn't trust young people – students, no less! – to be a Death Eater.

"Don't rule the possibility out completely," Harry said, looking at her earnestly.

"Hey, Hermione! We've been waiting down here for five minutes already!" came the voice of Paravti Patil.

Hermione's eyes widened. "You don't think our voices carried down, do you?" she asked, worry evident in the way her eyebrows drew together.

Harry was already shaking his head before she had finished her sentence. "I've already _Muffliato_'d the room."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Ah. Well, I better go then. You're coming?" she asked, getting up, and smoothening down her cloak.

"In a bit," Ron said, smiling.

Hermione nodded, and walked away quickly.

* * *

Draco gritted his teeth angrily. He didn't know why, but he was standing here. Outside Gryffindor Tower, of all places. For the fifth time in the last ten minutes, he tried his hardest to move his feet in the other direction, but they wouldn't.

"_Fuck_ this!" he exclaimed in frustration, kicking the wall.

_Is it possible to cast _Imperio_ on yourself?_ he wondered, and was about to try it, when the portrait opened.

He immediately wiped any emotion off his face. These were stupid Gryffindors; they did not deserve to see his frustration.

A small group of girls came out, most of them giggling ridiculously. The one, though, _the one_, didn't. She seemed to be lost in her own world. She had a grim determination on her face, and she chewed her bottom lip as if in deep contemplation. And yet, staring at her, repulsion was not what he felt. No, quite the contrary. He needed to be closer to her.

_What in the name of-?_ he thought. Did he just have the..._sick_ idea of being near the Mudblood? He stifled a shiver, and was about to quietly walk away before the idiots saw him, when he realised two things: 1) He couldn't move his goddamned feet, and 2) His body had other plans.

Some otherworldly force made him clear his throat. That was all it took for the giggles to cease. Almost as one the girls turned to face him. And when they realised who stood there, leaning against their wall, similar expressions of disdain appeared on their faces. Draco returned their looks with even more amount of disdain. He tried to amplify this expression when he looked at Granger, but he felt the expression fall clear off his face. He found himself suddenly not caring what they thought of them. He found himself slide his gaze over to meet Granger's. She had a resigned look upon her face.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked, sounding irritated. Draco hated the way she looked at him. Her face appeared to be carved from stone; her eyes had turned a dark, dark brown. He hated the way she had her hands balled into fists at her sides, as if calling upon all her strength to not physically hurt him.

He also hated the way he was thinking. Behind his back, he clutched his wand tightly. He would even cast an Avada on himself if he did anything stupid right now.

"I need to speak to you," he found himself saying. He masked his surprise, and attempted to push an air of superiority into his stance. Was it possible to commit suicide? Seriously? What was the success rate? Because it was difficult enough getting the flick of the wrist perfect when facing your victim – but Salazar help him, he couldn't master the flick of the wrist _behind_ his back.

She narrowed her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. The two girls next to her whispered to each other, now and then shooting dirty looks his way.

"Talk," she commanded.

Draco glared at the two idiots next to her. What did they have to do with anything? "_Alone_," he responded. He bit his tongue. Why in the name of hell would he want to be alone with Granger? _Granger!_ But he couldn't do anything. He looked around him, making sure that no one else was bearing witness to this scandal.

He sighed, resigning himself to this doomed fate of his. _Please let the pain be _brief, he pleaded.

As soon as he thought that, he felt the tension leave his body. And his thoughts were focused solely on Hermione Granger now.

He had no idea what he was going to tell her. All he knew was that he _needed_ to talk to her. About something. About anything. Even if it was to have an argument. He just needed to bloody damn talk to her.

"I choose now," she said through her teeth, getting irritated by the second.

"It's okay, Hermione, we'll go," the bint Brown said in a (loud) whisper, sending another glare Draco's way.

"What Malfoy has to say won't take a minute, Lavender," Granger said, casting a sideway glance at her friends.

"No! Lav and I don't mind, really. Bye!" the girl named Parvati exclaimed, and then grabbed her friend's arm and the two ran off.

Hermione turned to face him and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" she asked, and Draco could see her clench her teeth.

"Well what?" he asked stupidly. He mentally urged her to smile, to give some indication that she didn't hate standing there talking to him. But nothing came.

"What was it that you wanted, Malfoy?" she asked.

"I have no idea," he answered honestly.

She narrowed her eyes again. "Shut the bloody hell up and just tell me what you want!"

Draco felt a tickle somewhere in his stomach. "Honestly, Granger, how do you expect me to shut up _and_ tell you what I want?"

She glared at him. "Malfoy, my patience is running low. Just tell me what issue you want to bloody discuss and then we both can get on with our lives."

Draco dug deep into his mind. What could he say? What could he say to not scare her off? What could he say to make her not hate him?

Nothing. He couldn't tell her that for some unfathomable reason he craved her company. _Her _company! The _Mudblood_'s company! And yet, as she stood there, irritation written quite clearly across her face, he wanted to tell her.

No. Draco Malfoy would have _some_ control in this. "Nothing. Nothing at all," he said, and with some enormous amount of willpower, his feet moved. He moved them until he had come to the end of the corridor. He made his walk look effortless, oozing with confidence and superiority.

When he turned around and saw that she had gone, he felt confused. There was one point in that _thing _where he had control of his thoughts – sort of. Then, a short while after that, he had no control. He could have sworn he had done a body swap with some insane lunatic.

And now...he had control again of his thoughts _and _body!

Draco breathed in deeply, staring at his clenched fist. What the _fuck_ had just happened?

-to be continued-

_**A/**_**N: Sorry if that was kinda confusing. I have a plan for this story, and soon, it shall be revealed . (And by soon, I mean at the end of the story...) BUT, if you're confused, you should be good soon. (and by soon, I mean soon)**

**Please tell me your thoughts?**


	3. Surprise

_**A/**_**N: Yes, I know it's been like a month since I last updated! But at least I hadn't stopped on Chapter 13 or something : ) This chappie ain't that eventful. Fair warning.**

_Previously:_

_Draco stumbled because at that moment, the name and face of Hermione Granger flashed across his mind._

_And the very same happiness he felt before coursed through his body again._

Reading the first 2 chapters might help, though.

-SURPRISE-

"See, the general idea of food, Hermione," Ginny was saying, an amused smile tugging at her lips, "is that you _eat_ it."

"Wh-what?" Hermione stuttered, dropping her spoon. It landed in her soup with a big _splat_, spraying Hermione, Ginny and Harry with droplets of soup. Ginny grimaced, using her napkin to wipe away the food. Harry, to his credit, didn't notice as he was engaged in deep conversation with Dean Thomas. Since the greater part of the splatter had landed on Hermione's cloak, she used a simple "_Scourgify!"_ to clear it up.

"Hermione," began Ginny, no longer looking amused. "Are you alright?"

Hermione nodded, keeping her eyes glued to her bowl. "Of course, Ginny." She didn't add in the traditional response, "_Why do you ask?"_

"You haven't touched your food since the time you got here," Ginny observed worriedly.

"I don't like my food too hot," Hermione lied smoothly, making a show of blowing on her soup in a false attempt in cooling it down.

"Oh, okay, but—" Ginny was saying, but was cut off when Michael Corner tapped her on her shoulder.

Hermione tuned out their conversation. She shouldn't have let it bothered her, but her rather _unusual_ conversation with Malfoy earlier disturbed her. It was the first time he had ever been civil to her. She raised her eyes, scanning the Slytherin table for him. She spotted him immediately – his pale blond hair was difficult to miss. He, like Hermione, wasn't paying attention to his food.

He seemed to sense her staring, as his head snapped up, his eyes locking with hers. At this distance, Hermione couldn't read him. She couldn't see what emotion battled in his eyes. But she _could_ see his lips pulling up into the oh-so-famous Malfoy sneer.

Hermione felt her head tilt ever so slightly as she saw some form of struggle apparent on Malfoy's facial features. His sneer immediately turned into a grimace, before he looked away.

_What are you up to?_ she wondered, narrowing her eyes. Her brain buzzed with countless possibilities, but she had no idea that not one of those possibilities hit close to the truth.

-X-

"Your grades are slipping," Snape growled, throwing a copy of Draco's marks at him.

"That's what you called me here for?" Draco sneered, pushing the sheet back across the table towards Snape.

"It's either me or McGonagall, boy," Snape replied thinly, pushing the sheet back towards Draco.

Draco's nostrils flared, irritation tickling his nose. "I honestly don't care," he replied quietly, looking away from Snape's black eyes. His gaze fell upon the dark blue sky outside.

"Is that so?" Snape remarked.

Draco shrugged, looking back at him.

"Do you know what could happen?" Snape asked, leaning forward. Draco didn't answer. "_Do_ you?" Snape persisted.

Draco shrugged again, deliberately trying to annoy Snape.

"They will send Miss _Granger_ to tutor you," Snape said softly, in what he thought was a threatening way, obviously thinking that Draco would be repulsed by this information.

At the mention of her surname, Draco stiffened, bracing himself for the flood of emotion he always felt at the mention of her. He didn't have to wait long. Ah, that odd alien feeling. Draco rolled his eyes at how pathetic his body was being. Maybe he had the flu?

He was about to reply that no, he didn't need the help of the Granger girl, thank you very much, when –

"Fine," he heard himself say. Draco gritted his teeth.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Are you even _listening_ to yourself?" he hissed, gripping the edges of his narrow desk.

"Unfortunately," Draco replied. Honestly, was he under some sort of _spell?_

"If the Dark Lord even knew you were associating with a _Muggleborn_..." Snape said quietly, his black, depthless eyes boring into Draco's.

"Bring it on," Draco replied mildly. What he said was a huge mistake. Draco knew that the Dark Lord spoke with Snape regularly. Who's to say that Snape wouldn't mention this conversation to him?

"I know what you're trying to do, Snape," Draco said coldly, narrowing his eyes at his godfather. "But I've mastered Occlumency."

Snape leaned back into his high chair. "What is wrong with you, Draco? Why are you acting like this?"

Draco shrugged, fiddling with the sheet of paper. His marks _had_ dropped significantly.

"If you need my help—" began Snape.

"—I don't want it," Draco cut across Snape. "I don't want it," he repeated.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Yet you'd willingly accept Granger's?" Snape asked, looking suspicious.

Draco shrugged, yet he couldn't ignore that same _feeling_ that swept through his body again.

Snape regarded him for a moment; Draco looked coolly back at him.

Snape nodded, as if answering a question. "I see where you're going with this," he said softly.

Draco arched an eyebrow. Really? Because even _he_ didn't see where this was going.

"You're trying to get through to Potter via Granger," Snape explained, nodding again.

Draco felt like rolling his eyes at the stupidity of that theory, when he realised it wasn't that bad of an idea.

"The Dark Lord does, after all, want information," Snape continued. "Information he asked you to give him."

Maybe _that's_ why his body was reacting so bizarrely to Granger's presence! He was being...controlled? Draco shook his head. No, not controlled. Why would he feel – here, he gritted his teeth – _happy_ when he was around Granger?

Snape took his shake of the head as an answer. "What? Am I wrong?"

Draco chose not to reply. Let the man think whatever he wanted to.

"Fine. I shall organise something with McGonagall. Expect your...lessons," Snape said, his lips twitching, "to begin soon."

A strange sense of relief mixed with anticipation was felt by Draco. Whatever he was doing...it felt right. He nodded, getting up immediately from his chair.

Snape watched him leave. He shook his head. How wrong was it...such innocence to be taken away at such a young age?

He glanced down at Draco's mark sheet. He tore the sheet into halves, then into quarters, and then into eighths. He dumped the scraps into the bin, getting up. With a swish of his cloak, he disappeared into the corridors.

He needed to see Dumbledore.

"You're not in trouble, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said, watching the girl fiddle with her fingers nervously.

Hermione looked up. "Then why did you call me here, Professor?" she asked, genuinely worried. Had she horribly messed up her last Transfiguration essay? She _knew_ she should have written one more foot! "Professor," Hermione began, leaning forward, "if this is about my last essay, I can _assure_ you that –"

"It hasn't got anything to do with your academic performance, Miss Granger," the professor said kindly.

Hermione leaned back. "Oh."

"I need your assistance regarding a certain matter," the professor said.

"Of course, Professor," Hermione replied immediately. At least she could do _something_ that could distract her.

"Bear in mind, that you're possibly the only candidate available for this...job," Professor McGonagall continued.

Hermione nodded. "I'll do it, Professor," she replied, already committing herself to this unknown task.

"Mr Malfoy's grades are dropping and he needs a tutor," Professor McGonagall said, cutting straight to the chase.

Hermione's eyes widened as she realised what she had just agreed to. She licked her lips. "Professor, I—" she said, her voice sounding high-pitched.

The elderly woman held up her hand. "I understand, Miss Granger. Trust me, I understand."

Hermione looked at her wearily.

"None of the professors here can offer their services outside the classroom, outside school time," Professor McGonagall said. "We simply do not have enough time."

Inwardly, Hermione grimaced. She was also pushed for time!

"If you do not want to do this, I completely understand," the professor continued, looking at Hermione.

Hermione was already shaking her head. "Professor, I –"

"The Order could use this to our advantage, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said in a softer tone, even though a Silencing Charm had been cast around her office.

Hermione thought about what the professor was saying, suggesting. After a moment, the penny dropped. "Oh," she said resignedly. "Oh," she repeated in a sigh.

"We could use him for in—"

"With all due respect, Professor," Hermione said, cutting across the Deputy Headmistress, "I highly doubt that Malfoy would share all of Voldemort's secrets with me." She didn't miss the woman's flinch at the mention of Voldemort's name. "And besides, you're basing this on the assumption that Malfoy is a Death Eater. What if he's not?"

"What if he is?" Professor McGonagall countered. Hermione pursed her lips. "Professor Dumbledore thinks this is a good idea, Miss Granger."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Professor – Professor _Dumbledore_ thinks that Malfoy is a _Death Eater?_" she asked, disbelief ringing loud and clear in her voice.

Professor McGonagall blinked. "The boy is certainly very close to his father and mother, Miss Granger, both of whom Mr Potter has spotted on quite a few events with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It is reasonable to assume that Mr Malfoy is part and parcel of—"

"But a _Death Eater_, Professor? A mere _child_?" Hermione asked, horrified.

The professor let out a sad smile. "You-Know-Who has no limits, Miss Granger. You should know that by now."

Hermione nodded, still absorbing this information. So Harry's theory was completely plausible!

"I'll do it, Professor," she said. "I'll do it for the Order."

The professor nodded. "Thank you, Miss Granger. And if, at any time, you feel threatened or unsafe, please come to me or Professor Dumbledore."

Hermione nodded, and then bit her lip. "But Professor...I can't promise anything. He hates me."

The elderly woman sighed. "There's no harm in trying."

Hermione looked back at her, and they both knew how untrue that statement really was.

-X-

_She has bushy hair._

No, not anymore.

_She's a bloody bookworm._

And secretly, so are you.

_She's a Mudblood._

You've seen her blood; what's so muddy about it?

_Her friends are a bunch of idiots._

So Crabbe and Goyle are suddenly sophisticated and knowledgeable?

"ARGH!" Draco yelled, kicking the thing closest to him – which just happened to be his table. "Ow," he said, wincing. Life lesson number twenty-three: never kick anything hard when you're not wearing any shoes.

He couldn't stand the voices in his head. He was going mental. This small, _irritating_ voice seemed to counter every insult he thought about Granger. It wasn't like him. It wasn't like him _at all_.

So...how to get rid of it? He picked up his wand. He flicked it, muttering, "_Finite incantatem." _

Had it worked?

He thought of something insulting about Granger, to check if his spell had worked or not.

_She has bushy hair._

Not anymore, she doesn't.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, dumping himself on his bed.

He had a couple of options. Number one, to commit suicide. He shook his head. Well, that would be foolish. Number two, to give in to this feeling – it was only temporary, right? He shook his head again. What if it wasn't temporary? What if word got out that Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, was being friendly towards a Mudblood (_Muggleborn!_ his mind corrected)? It went against all of Salazar Slytherin's ideals; it went against all of the Dark Lord's ideas; it went against his father's ideals, goddamnit! It went against his _own_ ideals!

Option number three: to play along with Snape's idea of conspiracy. Draco thought. But would his mind let him do that? Would it let him conspire against Granger? Seeing that it wouldn't let him even think bad things about her?

_Hang on_, he thought. _How do I know it only works with Granger? What about...Potter...or Weasel...or maybe even Goyle?_

_Potter is an idiot._

He waited.

Nothing.

_Weasel is a pathetic, useless piece of shite._

He waited.

Nothing.

_Goyle is...just useless._

He waited.

Nothing.

He sighed. Trying his luck, he thought, _Granger has bushy hair._

He didn't even have to wait. The reply was instantaneous.

_No, she doesn't._

He gritted his teeth. This was bloody perfect.

So what could he do? He pulled a hand through his hair. _Think_, he urged himself. Five, long minutes later he had made a decision.

The food didn't beat the Manor's, but it sure as hell came close. He fiddled with his food, taking in a few forkfuls. After about ten minutes of forced eating, he stopped. Lately, he had lost his appetite, and he knew that it was starting to show. He wiped at his eyes self-consciously.

A first-year Ravenclaw with spiky black hair ran towards him. The boy stopped breathlessly next to him. Draco looked up once, registering the boy, then rolled his eyes looking away.

"Mister Malfoy," the boy said quietly, even though he was evidently still catching his breath.

"What?" Draco snapped. He really was _not_ in the mood for idiots at the moment.

"I have a very important letter for you," the boy said.

The boy didn't elaborate. Draco thought that he deliberately

"Are you just going to stand there looking like an idiot, or is that your general disposition?" Draco asked, impatience hitting his nerves. This time he looked at the boy. Straight in the eye.

"Dis...disposition, Sir?"

Draco's lips twitched in annoyance. "I take that as a yes, then." He pushed himself from the Slytherin table. He slung his bag over his shoulder, digging his hands into his pockets. "Run along," he muttered, dismissing the boy.

"No! Wait!"

Draco turned around slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

The boy gulped. "I'm so sorry!"

Inwardly, Draco was rather impressed that he still managed to command this level of authority. The boy was _scared_ of him. Draco smirked.

"I need to...Professor Snape said that if I don't give this to you, he'd –" The boy visibly swallowed, and Draco wondered what Severus had said.

"Just give it to me," Draco snapped, holding his hand out.

With shaking hands, the boy handed it to Draco. Draco snatched it, tired of the boy's nervousness. It was getting old.

Draco scanned it. He scrunched the paper up, stowing it away in his pocket. He glanced at the boy. "Why are you still standing here? Are you expecting a tip?"

The boy's eyes bulged. Without any words, he ran off to his table.

Draco, shaking his head, walked out of the Great Hall. He needed to physically prepare his body for tonight's tutoring session with _her_. If he reacted in any such way, he would...

-X-

Hermione stared shocked at Malfoy's retreating back.

"Close your mouth, Hermione," Ron said, just before he started slurping at his soup. "Honestly, do you not know to keep your mouth _closed_ at this table?"

"Did you see what Malfoy just did?" she asked, looking back at them. She could still feel the surprise eating at her face.

"Nope," he said. "It seems kinda normal not having eyes in the back of my head. Don't know about you."

Hermione shook her head. "He just verbally abused that poor Ravenclaw!"

Ron waited.

When Hermione still looked so wordlessly shocked, he said, "And?"

"What do you mean 'and'? _He_ _terrorised a little boy!"_

Ron looked at her. He stared at her for a few moments.

Hermione shifted under his penetrating gaze. "What?"

"You do realise that this is _Malfoy_, right?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"And Malfoy's been after our arses ever since first year."

"I know that, but—"

"Are you honestly that shocked?" Ron asked, getting back to his soup. Cold soup wouldn't do.

Hermione thought. "I guess not." She paused. "But actually _seeing_ it was different. Usually I'm on the receiving end."

"Mm hm," Ron mumbled, clearly not listening to her.

_Usually I'm on the receiving end, _she mentally reiterated_. _Well, _usually_ ... up until today.

-to be continued-


	4. NonEmotion

_Previously on LIC:_

"_Your grades are slipping," Snape growled, throwing a copy of Draco's marks at him._

_... "Fine. I shall organise something with McGonagall. Expect your...lessons," Snape said, his lips twitching, "to begin soon."_

_... "The Order could use this to our advantage, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall._

...

-NON-EMOTION-

"What," Granger asked in forced politeness, "exactly do you need help with?"

Draco shrugged, continuing to tap his quill on the desk. He felt like snarling at her, he honestly did. Did she think she was doing him a _favour? _Did she think that he _wanted _this? Idio – lovely girl.

Draco ground his teeth. Already he had no freedom of speech – now he had no freedom of thought either? Brilliant.

"I, too, have better things to do, you know," Granger snapped, her eyes flashing with naked anger.

Draco couldn't hold back a snort. What could the girl have to do except bloody study?

Granger narrowed her eyes very unimpressively, in Draco's mute opinion.

"Something _funny_, Malfoy?" she snarled.

Something in Draco twisted, and he shifted uncomfortably. He raised his head to look at her, and then held back a wince. The cool air cut at the fresh wound lazily sleeping on his neck. He had very unsuccessfully tried to cast a _Muffliato_ upon himself. Unsuccessful, because instead of silencing himself, a violent red stream of light shot out of his wand heading straight for his neck, leaving a bleeding gash behind.

Merlin. Magic made things rather complicated at times.

And yet made unwanted self-harm so easy.

He did not trust himself to speak to her. Who knows what he would have said? By the end of the week, he could have proposed to her! He shuddered at the thought, the action being picked up by the all too observant Know-It-All. It wasn't that he wasn't surprised at Granger's response. Hell, on any normal day, he would have sneeringly welcomed her response with a rather witty response.

But today was not a normal day at all. Far from it.

"_Well?"_ she asked, her nostrils flaring just a bit.

Draco chose his next words very carefully. He knew that he couldn't insult her, or be mean to her, because _This Thing_ wouldn't allow it. But he also didn't want her to think that they had become bosom buddies. He also didn't want her to think that he was sorely lacking human communication that he had resorted to being nice to _her_ kind.

Not that her kind was bad at all.

Draco ground his teeth. _Yes, her kind_ was_ –_ indeed very lovely and wonderful.

He stifled the urge to roll his eyes.

His thought process reached its end in all of two seconds, so he knew that his response wouldn't be perceived as delayed, "It's to my understanding that you're getting something out of this, Granger," he said, smirking. Smirks were good, acceptable. For him, they were genuine.

His eyes flickered briefly to her hands which were clenched into fists of anger. He hid his (unfortunate) amusement, and stared at her unblinkingly.

"How dare you insinuate such things!" she whisper-screamed.

Draco raised an eyebrow, hoping to create the desired effect of _I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know-that-that's-a-load-of-shit_. "It's not insinuating if it's _true_."

Despite her obvious lethargy, she managed to lift her lips into an evil smile. "And as I understand it, Malfoy, your future rests in my hands, correct?"

The question was rhetorical. Yet Draco couldn't help but think _If only my future __centered__ on education and nothing else. _He smiled without feeling. "Wrong, actually."

Draco saw something flicker in her eyes – not anger, not surprise, not chagrin at being wrong. None of these emotions even stood there fleetingly. What he saw instead was sadness. A sadness that he associated with his mother...His mother wouldn't look at him anymore. Not now that she knew that he would have to torture or kill in order to prove himself. But the last time her icy grey eyes locked onto his, the sadness filling them shocked him to his core.

Maybe Granger's didn't register on the same degree, but it was there, alright. _Could she know?_ Draco wondered. _Could she know what I am? _For a brief second, he entertained the thought. Glimmers of hope bubbled in the very depths of his heart, but soon disappeared. He dismissed the thought, knowing that if she _did_ know, she probably would have found a way of killing him by now.

-X-

Hermione could have been wrong...but that hardly ever happened. Malfoy looked almost regretful when she had mentioned his future. He couldn't possibly regret becoming a Death Eater, could he? That's if he _is_ one, of course. She was so sure that deep down he was a good person. Or, at least, not evil. Every child is born innocent, right? Every child is born pure and good. So what had happened along the way? Who had done this to him?

Such a waste of purity.

She feigned indifference. "Either way," she began, proud that her voice still held an edge to it, "I have been given the unfortunate task of tutoring you in subjects that you are –"

"I am well aware of your purpose here, Granger," he interrupted, waving his hand.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. The way she was going, her eyes were going to be stuck in a permanent squint. "What is wrong with you, Malfoy?"

His eyes had been glued to his scrolls of parchment. But now, he raised them to look at hers. For what must have been the tenth time that afternoon, Hermione's breath caught in her throat when she saw the lack of emotion in his eyes. No one, not even Malfoy, deserved that kind of soul battering. But she couldn't let him know her thoughts. She didn't want him to think that she was being civil or nice...or anything along those lines.

His lips twitched. "I'm not too sure what you mean," he said, and his voice sounded too light to be taken in as honest confusion.

"I don't—" Hermione broke off her sentence. It wasn't often she used the words _I don't understand_ in sequence, and she wasn't about to make a habit of it now. But she didn't know how else to voice her confusion. So focused was she on her current thoughts, that she didn't notice how a _very brief_ moment of amusement flickered in Malfoy's eyes whilst watching her battle with her emotions.

"Why are you acting like this?" was the question she chose instead. Hermione honestly didn't care for the fact why he had lost his bite, or why he wasn't mocking her or insulting her purity – or lack thereof – of blood. Over the years, she had grown used to it, so the change didn't impact her too greatly.

It didn't impact her too greatly, but it did impact her to a certain extent. It bothered her, this fight-less Draco Malfoy.

She met his cool gaze unflinchingly. After a few moments of contemplation on his part, he answered. "I don't think I have to answer that," he replied smoothly.

Her eyebrows lifted of their own accord. "It took you twelve seconds to arrive at that...answer?" she asked in a scathing voice.

"You counted." He didn't look surprised.

Hermione didn't reply, waiting for a proper response from him. When she knew that she wasn't going to get it, she sighed. She pushed her hair off her face, and leaned forward over the shared desk. She unrolled one of the many charts on the table, placing weights on the ends to keep it from rolling back together. It wasn't a very successful attempt, as the chart kept on rolling closed.

She heard him move, and before she could say anything, he waved his wand, pointing it at the chart. A second later, the chart was floating before them, completely opened up.

Embarrassment colored her cheeks. "I was going to—"

"Don't even try, Granger," was his response. She flashed a look at him, about to retort, when she noticed that there was no ill-meaning behind his words. She frowned. Perhaps he was sick.

She shook her head, slightly puzzled, but turned to face the chart, whilst she explained the concept of Arithmancy in a monotone voice. At least the chart didn't have non-emotion written all over it. At least the chart didn't look calm, instead of looking pissed off for being in her company.

At least the chart looked normal.

-X-

Draco walked away from the library two hours later. Two long hours later. He was proud of himself, though, he truly was. And not just because he managed to perfect all of the Arithmancy that his class had covered. He was proud because he had mastered self-restraint. And self-restraint was something easily frowned upon by many. But not by him.

Whatever spell he was under – for he believed that a spell or any other magical influence had impacted his judgement of society and its people – practically forced him to overlook Granger's faults. It forced him to appreciate whatever she offered him in whatever quantities.

And he hated it.

Pride aside, he angrily kicked at the adjacent wall. Why did the universe choose to teach him compassion _now?_ Why now, for fuck's sake?

He now knew how to talk to her without looking like an idiot. All he had to do was speak civilly, and be mindful about the words he used. His body – goddamnit, his body! – just wanted to be in close proximity with hers, and two hours seemed sufficient. After those two hours, he no longer felt the pull towards her, but in the back of his mind, he had wanted to stay.

Well, it wasn't him that wanted to stay. It was the new him. Everything he did now was not his fault at all.

-X-

Hermione collapsed on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, sighing. She closed her eyes, welcoming the relief her body bathed in.

"You were gone for a long time," came a sulky voice.

She opened her eyes, startled. "Ron?" she asked, not seeing anyone. She turned around, and spotting him, she smiled, feeling warm inside. "Hello, Ron."

"Two hours, Hermione," he said, walking towards her, ignoring her greeting.

She blinked. "Ron, you know about the agreement I have with Professor McGonagall," she said, frowning at his response.

He sat down next to her. "Yes, but I'm sure that it wasn't in the agreement to spend two whole hours with him."

Irritation passed through her. She faced him, crossing her arms. "He needs to cover two months of schoolwork, Ronald."

"It's two months, Hermione, not six," Ron stubbornly replied.

"Why are you being like this?" Hermione demanded, her annoyance evident in her stiff tone.

Ron looked around them, making sure that no one else was in the common room. "We need to go over plans, Herms," he said softly.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. When she saw his wounded expression, she sighed. She didn't like the nickname he had given her, but she didn't want to upset him further. "Look, Ron," she said in a gentler tone, remembering that he _was_ the one she was in love with. "The mission is obviously my top priority. But what I'm doing for Malfoy...Professor McGonagall wants me to do it for The Order."

Now it was Ron's turn to look confused.

Hermione interpreted his look correctly. "I think she wants information, Ron," she whispered, "information about Voldemort."

Ron visibly held back a wince at the mention of the name. "But the only way you can get information is through...is through..." Ron's eyes bulged as realization hit home. Hermione smiled sadly. "_No!"_ he growled.

Hermione placed a hand on his arm. "Shh, Ron," she said, looking around them. "And, I know."

"You can't do it, Hermione," he said, shaking his head. "You can't do it."

Hermione turned away from him, rubbing away the sleep from her eyes. "I know, Ron," she said softly.

"Then?" Ron asked. "Then what are you going to do, Hermione? You can't just become his _best mate_!"

"I know, Ron!" she said, her voice unintentionally rising. "I'll work something out!"

"And if you don't, Hermione?"

She whirled around to face him. "Then we find a way to kill Voldemort."

"Well, that much is obvious," came a voice.

"Gah!" Hermione yelped, jumping in her seat.

Ron looked over his shoulder, sighing. "Harry, a warning would have been nice, mate."

Harry dropped himself on the floor before them. "And said what? How about: Hey guys, I can hear you from halfway down the staircase?"

"You could hear us?" Ron asked, his voice just above a whisper.

Harry levelled a look at him. "You're lucky everyone is asleep. Why didn't you guys _Muffliato_ the place?"

Hermione shifted in her seat. "Sorry, Harry. If _someone_ hadn't been so very rude to me, maybe I would have thought about that."

"I was not rude," Ron snapped.

"Stop," Harry said in a tired voice, before either could continue arguing. "First, I already cast a Soundproof Charm around us, so feel free to shout. Second, I agree with Ron, Hermione."

She widened her eyes. "What? Harry—"

"_About_ becoming best friends with Draco Malfoy," he said. She looked away. "That's impossible."

"I know that," she gritted out between her teeth. "Don't you think I know that?"

"Of course we do," Harry assured her, putting an arm around her. "So you don't have to commit yourself to this task of tutoring Malfoy."

He saw her hesitate.

"For all you know, he could be using you to get information about the Order."

Hermione nodded. "I thought about that, Harry, but I have this feeling that he's changed."

Ron's mouth fell open. "Hermione, you can_not_ be serious! After two hours, you thing that—"

"I said that I have a _feeling_, Ronald," she snapped.

"But still," Ron said childishly, sticking is chin out.

She turned so that she could look at both of them. "He hasn't mocked me yet! He hasn't been mean to me, or hurt my feelings, or called me any...names!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And you don't think that that could be part of his plan?"

"You're letting your good nature get in the way of your judgement, Hermione," Ron said slowly.

She would have smiled at Ron's genuine compliment, if it had only one meaning. "Ron, my judgement of him still remains perfectly intact. I still think that he's capable of committing heinous crimes—"

"Good," Ron said, nodding in satisfaction.

"—but, there's something truly off about him, and I can't put my finger on it," she ended, doubt entering her voice.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out soon, Hermione," Harry said, squeezing her shoulder. "But you're a very compassionate person."

Hermione bit her tongue, refusing to reply. There were people she hated and didn't feel sorry for. The Lestranges. The MacMillans. The...well, any Death Eater family, really. And she didn't like Draco Malfoy at all. She disliked him. But she was very unsure about him.

She rubbed at her eyes again. "I think I need to sleep, now."

"What's your decision?" Ron asked, leaning forward.

Hermione looked at him. She stared into the blue depths of his eyes, wondering if things would ever turn right at the end – if there even was an end. "I'm still going to tutor him," she said. Harry and Ron were about to interrupt when she held up a hand. "Professor McGonagall thinks I stand a chance, so I'll try. In the meantime, we need to work out the locations of the Horcruxes."

The topic change was so abrupt, yet so very effective. The concern was wiped off her friends' faces, only to be replaced with masks of grim determination. The warmth had long left Ron's eyes.

Hermione turned away.

She wasn't able to face another cold face.

"Goodnight."

-to be continued-

_A big thank you to my beta vswimming12 : )_


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